cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第5部分

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　in　services　and　took　from　everybody。　Cassidy　probably　maintained　the　penthouse；　I　decided；　because　the　Royal　Palm　Towers　was　one　of　the　few　apartment　hotels　in　Palm　Beach　that　remained　open　all　year　round。
　　Many　New　Yorkers；　who　didn't　like　Florida　for　its　climate；　loved　the　state　because　there　was　no　state　ine　tax。　By　maintaining　a　residence　for　six　months　and　one　day　in　Florida　they　could　beat　New　York's　state　ine　tax。　An　ignoble　but　practical　motive　for　moving　one's　residence　and　business　headquarters　to　Florida。
　　〃Where；〃　I　asked　Gloria；　〃did　you　get　the　Haitian　primitives？〃
　　〃A　widow　in　Lauderdale　sold　them　to　me。〃　She　giggled。　〃For　a　song。　Her　husband　just　died；　and　she　sold　everything…house；　furniture；　collection；　and　all。　She　was　moving　back　to　Indiana　to　live　with　her　daughter　and　grandchildren。〃
　　〃You　priced　the　Marcel　too　low；　baby。　You　can　get　more　than　fifteen　hundred　for　it。〃
　　〃I　doubt　it；　and　I　can't　lose　anything…not　when　I　only　paid　twenty…five　dollars　for　it。〃
　　〃You're　a　thief　and　a　bitch。〃
　　Gloria　giggled。　〃You're　a　blackguard。　What　have　you　done　with　Berenice？〃
　　〃She　went　back　to　Minnesota。　I　don't　want　to　talk　about　her；　Gloria。〃
　　〃She's　an　awfully　nice　girl；　James。〃
　　〃I　said　I　don't　want　to　talk　about　her；　Gloria。〃
　　We　took　the　elevator　to　the　penthouse；　but　the　door　didn't　open　automatically。　There　was　a　small　one…way　window　on　the　steel　door　（a　mirror　on　our　side）；　and　the　Filipino　houseboy　checked　us　out　before　pressing　the　door　release　from　his　side。　There　was　probably　a　release　button　concealed　somewhere　within　the　elevator　cage。　There　had　to　be。　Cassidy　couldn't　keep　someone　in　his　penthouse　at　all　times；　just　to　push　a　button　and　let　him　in…or　could　he？　The　very　rich　do　a　lot　of　strange　things。
　　The　party　was　not　a　large　one。　Seven　people　counting　Mr。　Cassidy。　Gloria　and　I　brought　the　total　to　nine。　It　was　the　kind　of　party　where　it　is　assumed　that　everyone　knows　one　another　and　therefore　no　one　is　introduced。　There　are　many　parties　like　that　in　Palm　Beach。　The　main　idea　is　to　eat　first；　and　then　drink　as　much　as　possible　before　the　bar　is　closed　or　the　liquor　runs　out。　If　one　feels　the　need　to　talk　to　someone；　he　introduces　himself　or　starts　talking　to　someone　without　giving　his　name。　It　makes　very　little　difference。　Mr。　Cassidy　had　to　know　everyone　there…at　least　slightly…to　brief　the　Filipino　houseboy　on　the　person's　credentials　for　admittance。
　　Sloan；　the　bartender　（he　wore　a　name　tag　on　his　white　jacket）；　poured　us　Cutty　Sarks　over　ice　cubes。　I　trailed　Gloria　toward　the　terrace；　where　Mr。　Cassidy　was　talking　to　a　grayhaired　man　who　was　probably　a　senior　officer　in　some　branch　of　the　armed　forces。　He　wore　an　Oxford　gray　suit　with　deeply　pleated　trousers。　The　suit　was　new；　indicating　that　he　didn't　wear　it　often。　This　meant　that　he　wore　a　uniform　most　of　the　time。　A　suit　lasts　army　and　navy　officers　for　eight　or　nine　years。　Pleats　were　long　out　of　fashion　and　Oxford　gray　is　the　favorite　suit　color　for　high…ranking　officers。　They　lead　dark；　gray　lives。
　　〃I　appreciate　that；　Tom；〃　Cassidy　said；　sticking　out　his　hand；　and　the　gray…haired　man　was　dismissed。
　　I　watched　the　old…timer　head　for　the　elevator。　I　could　have　confirmed；　easily　enough；　whether　the　man　was　in　the　service　by　asking；　〃Isn't　that　General　Smith？〃　In　this　case；　however；　I　believed　that　I　was　right　and　didn't　feel　the　need　of　confirmation。
　　Joseph　Cassidy　was　short；　barely　missing　squatness；　with　wide　meaty　shoulders　and　a　barrel　chest。　His　tattersall　vest　was　a　size　too　small　and　looked　incongruous　with　his　red　velvet　smoking　jacket。　He　needed　the　vest　for　its　pockets…　pockets　for　his　watch　and　chain；　and　the　thin　gold　chain　for　his　Phi　Beta　Kappa　key。　He　had　a　tough　Irish　face；　tiny　blue　eyes；　with　fully　a　sixteenth　of　an　inch　of　white　exposed　beneath　the　irises；　and　square　white　teeth。　His　large　upper　front　teeth　overlapped；　slightly；　his　full　lower　lip。　His　high　forehead　was　flaking　from　sunburn。　He　wore　a　closecropped　black　moustache；　and　his　black　hair；　which　was　graying　at　the　sides；　was　bed　straight　back　and　slicked　down　with　water。　Cassidy　was　a　formidable　man　in　his　early　fifties。　He　carried　himself　with　an　air　of　authority；　and　his　confident　manner　was　reinforced　by　his　rich；　resonant　bass　voice。　And　his　gold…rimmed　glasses…the　same　kind　that　Robert　McNamara　wore　when　he　was　Secretary　of　Defense…were　beautifully　suitable　for　his　face。
　　Gloria　introduced　us　and　started　toward　the　indoor　fountain　to　look　at　the　carp。　The　pooi　was　crowded　with　these　big　fish；　and　I　could　see　their　backs；　pied　with　gold　and　vermilion　splotches；　from　where　I　stood；　some　fifteen　feet　away　from　the　pool。　A　concrete　griffin；　on　a　pedestal　in　the　center　of　the　pool；　dribbled　water　from　its　eagle　beak　into　the　carp…filled　pool。　It　was　a　poorly　designed　griffin。　The　sculptor；　who　probably　knew　too　much　about　anatomy；　had　been　unable　to　e　to　terms　with　the　idea　of　a　cross　between　an　eagle　and　a　lion。　Medieval　sculptors；　who　knew　nothing　about　anatomy；　had　no　trouble　at　all　in　visualizing　griffins　and　gargoyles。　Cassidy　took　my　arm；　grasping　my　left　elbow　with　a　thumb　and　forefinger。
　　〃e　on；　Jim；〃　he　said；　〃I'll　show　you　a　couple　of　pictures。　They　call　you　'Jim；'　don't　they？〃
　　〃No；〃　I　replied；　hiding　my　irritation。　〃I　prefer　James。　My　father　named　me　Jaime；　but　no　one　ever　seemed　to　pronounce　it　right；　so　I　changed　it　to　James。　Not　legally；〃　I　added。
　　〃It's　the　same　name。〃　He　shrugged　his　meaty　shoulders。　〃No　need　for　a　legal　change；　James。〃
　　I　smiled。　〃I　didn't　ask　for　that　advice；　Mr。　Cassidy；　so　please　don't　bill　me　for　it。〃
　　〃I　don't　intend　to。　I　was　just　going　to　say　that　you　don't　look　like　a　man　named　Jaime　Figueras。〃
　　〃Like　the　stereotype　Puerto　Rican；　you　mean？　The　peculiar　thing　is　that　my　blond　hair　and　blue　eyes　e　from　my　father；　not　my　mother。　My　mother　was　Scotch…Irish；　with　black　hair　and　hazel　eyes。〃
　　〃You　don't　have　a　Spanish　accent；　either。　How　long　have　you　lived　in　the　States？〃
　　〃Since　I　was　twelve。　My　father　died；　and　my　mother　moved　back　to　New　York。　She　never　liked　Puerto　Rico；　anyway。　She　was　a　milliner；　a　creative　designer　of　hats　for　women。　You　can't　sell　original　hats　to　Puerto　Rican　women。　All　they　need　is　a　mantilla…or　a　piece　of　pink　Kleenex　pinned　to　their　hair…to　attend　mass。〃
　　〃I've　never　met　a　milliner。〃
　　〃There　aren't　many　left。　My　mother's　dead　now；　and　very　few　women　wear　originals　nowadays；　even　when　they　happen　to　buy　a　hat。〃
　　〃Are　hats　worth　collecting？〃　he　asked　suddenly；　moistening　his　upper　lip　with　the　tip　of　his　pink　tongue。　〃Original　hats；　I　mean？〃
　　I　knew　then　that　Mr。　Cassidy　was　a　true　collector；　and；　knowing　that；　I　knew　a　lot　more　about　him　than　he　thought　I　knew。　In　general；　collectors　can　be　divided　into　three　categories。
　　First；　the　rare　patron…collectors　who　know　what　they　want　and　order　it　from　artists　and　artisans。　This　first　category；　in　the　historical　past；　helped　to　establish　styles。　Without　the　huge　demand　for　portraits　in　the　sixteenth　and　seventeenth　centuries；　for　example；　there　would　have　been　no　great　school　of　portrait　painters。
　　Second；　the　middle…ground　people；　who　buy　what　is　fashionable；　but　collect　fashionable　art　because　they　either　like　it　without　knowing　why　（it　reflects　their　times　is　why）　or　have　been　taught　to　like　it。
　　In　the　third　category　are　the　collectors　for　economic　reasons。　They　buy　and　sell　to　make　a　profit。　That　is；　in　a　tautological　sense；　they　are　collectors　because　they　are　collectors；　but　they　enjoy　the　works　of　art　they　possess　at　the　moment　for　their　present　and　future　value。
　　The　one　trait　that　all　three　types　of　collectors　have　in　mon　is　miserliness。　They　write　small；　seldom　dotting　〃i's〃　or　crossing　〃t's〃　and　they　are　frequently　costive。　Once　they　own　something；　anything；　they　don't　want　to　give　it　up。
　　The　collector's　role　is　almost　as　important　to　world　culture　as　the　critic's。　Without　collectors　there　would　be　precious　little　art　produced　in　this　world；　and　without　critics；　collectors　would　wonder　what　to　collect。　Even　those　few　collectors　who　are　knowledgeable　about　art　will　not　go　out　on　a　limb　without　critical　confirmation。　Collectors　and　critics　live　within　this　uneasy　symbiotic　relationship。　And　artists…the　poor　bastards…who　are　caught　in　the　middle；　would　starve　to　death　without　us。
　　〃No'　I　shook　my　head。　As　we　crossed　through　the　living　room　toward　his　study　I　explained　why。　〃Hats　are　too　easy　to　copy。　Original　hats；　during　the　twenties　and　thirties；　were　expensive　because　they　were　made　specifically　for　one　person　and　for　one　occasion。　As　soon　as　a　new　hat　was　seen　on　Norma　Shearer's　head；　it　was　copied　and　massproduced。　The　copy；　except　perhaps　for　the　materials；　looked　about　the　same。　Some　of　the　hats　worn　during　the　Gilded　Age；　when　egret　feathers　were　popular；　might　be　worth　collecting；　but　I　doubt　if　restoration；　storage；　and　upkeep　costs　would　make　it　worthwhile　to　collect　even　those。〃
　　〃I　see。　You　have　looked　into　it　then？〃
　　〃Not　exhaustively。　Fashion　isn't　my　field…as　you　know。〃
　　We　entered　his　study；　which　was　furnished　in　black　leather；　glass；　and　chrome。　Cassidy　sank　into　an　audibly　cushioned　chai